Human Born, Demon Bred
by CastleQuill
Summary: Ten years ago, Sammy was kidnapped by demons, and Dean couldn't save him. The two are reunited when Dean summons a crossroads demon to save John's life, and Sam is the one who appears. Dean is convinced that Sam is still human somewhere deep inside. The problem is that nobody – not even his brother – agrees with him.
1. Chapter 1 - Prologue

**I'd like to thank DarkestRevelation, who gave me the idea for this story.**

**Warnings: violence, swearing, references to torture, character death, demon blood, and general creepiness. This is not a happy story.**

* * *

"Dean," Sam said, a hint of a whine creeping into his voice. "Come on, it's been your turn for the past five minutes, just make a move already."

He and Dean were lying on the floor of their motel room with a chessboard between them. Sam had apparently learned how to play in his sixth grade class last week, and now that they'd moved to a new town and left all of Sam's nerdy little playmates behind, he had pretty much dragged Dean to the store to buy the game. And then he'd sat around sulking until Dean had finally agreed to play with him. The kid was so excited about it that Dean was honestly torn between wanting to let him win and wanting to kick his ass as hard as he could.

"Dean," Sam said again, shaking his head. "Do you need me to explain the rules again?"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean hissed. Sam opened his mouth, about ready to protest, but Dean covered his mouth before he could. "Seriously, look at that." He pointed up at the light directly above their heads. It was flickering.

"So?" Sam asked, and now the sulk that he'd lost when Dean had agreed to play with him was back, even more pronounced than before. "This isn't the first time that Dad's taken us to stay at a dump."

For once, Dean didn't bother arguing about what Sam had said about Dad. He was too busy jumping to his feet, yanking Sam up by the elbow, ignoring his brother's squawk of protest. "Most of the motels don't do that," he said, pointing to the digital clock on the bedside table, which was blinking on and off. "Or that." They'd left the TV on, since Dean had been keeping one eye on a game that'd been playing. Now, though, the screen showed nothing but static.

Sam froze, fear appearing on his face for the first time. "What is it?" he asked.

"Demons," Dean said grimly. He didn't say anything else. He definitely didn't say what he was thinking – that Dad might not have told him everything about the demon who had killed their mom, but he'd definitely told Dean about what signs they should keep an eye out for in case it ever came back.

These were the signs.

Dean grabbed a sharpie off a table and yanked Sam toward the bathroom, figuring that that would be the easiest place to defend. There was a small closet over to the side, filled with towels and cleaning supplies and shit like that. "Get in there," he said, giving Sam a shove toward it.

Sam stumbled but managed to regain his balance, and crawled inside without protesting. He curled his knees against his chest, and even then, he barely fit. But he'd be safe there. "Good," Dean said, and started drawing sigils on the inside of the door. "Keep this closed, okay? The demons won't be able to get into it."

Sam nodded, though he was already shaking so hard that it made his head knock against the side of the closet. "What are you going to do?"

"Exorcise these bastards," Dean said, and he was scared enough that he didn't even notice that he'd just sworn in front of his little brother, which Dad had told him that he wasn't allowed to do. But Dad wasn't here now. He wasn't even in the same city. He was off working a job on the other side of the state, and even if Dean managed to call him, there was no way that he'd get here on time. Which meant that it was up to Dean to keep Sammy safe.

"Don't worry," Dean said. He managed a smile, and despite everything, Sam gave him a shaky smile back. "Nothing's going to touch you, Sammy."

Then he slammed the door and ran back to the main room, locking the bathroom behind him for good measure.

The lights were flickering harder than before, to the point where Dean could barely see the letters of Dad's journal, even when he held it up to his face. He grabbed a flashlight from the emergency pack they always kept under the bed, and this light was steady. Dean turned to the exorcism at the front of the journal and laid it on the bed, pointing the flashlight beam at it so that he could still read it, and then grabbed the gun that was also in the emergency pack. This one was filled with salt rounds.

Okay. Dean was ready.

Which was a good thing, because at that moment, the door flew off the hinges, and in came the demons. Three of them, a man and two teenagers.

The man had yellow eyes. Dean had never seen that before. He'd thought that all demon eyes were black.

Dean didn't think about it, though. He took aim and shot one round after another, reading off as fast as he could, "_Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino-_"

He didn't make it any farther than that before he was thrown back against the wall and held there by some unseen force. The gun fell from his hand.

"That was a nice try, I will admit," the Yellow-Eyed demon said, sounding more amused than anything. The other two demons headed toward the bathroom door. "Of course, it wasn't nearly enough," he said after a moment. "But it was still better than what I was expecting."

Dean couldn't turn his head, or even move at all, but he heard it when the demons broke down the bathroom door.

Which was when Dean discovered that his mouth still worked, at least, because he screamed, "Stay away from my brother, you creepyass bastards!"

The demon just smirked.

"Seriously," Dean said, his voice getting lower and more intense. "Go ahead and hurt me, do whatever you want. But don't bring my brother into this. He's twelve, for crying out loud. He's not even a threat, I'll bet you anything that he's going to be a completely shitty hunter, you don't have to worry about him."

The demon shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't promise that," he said, looking almost sad, though Dean knew that it was only an act. "Hurting you, though, has always been part of the plan."

Dean began sliding up the wall, slowly, an inch at a time. Long enough that he knew what was about to happen. Dad might not have told him everything about how their mom had died, but Dean knew enough.

"SAM!" he screamed, desperately hoping that his brother would be able to hear him. "STAY WHERE YOU ARE! DON'T COME OUT!" That was the only good thing about any of this, the fact that Dean had gotten those sigils on the door, so Sammy would be safe. And after those gunshots that Dean had let off, he was sure that someone had called the police. Which wouldn't help anything, since the police would just get slaughtered, but this had to make the paper tomorrow. Dad would see it and come back. If Sam could just stay locked up and safe until Dad got here, then Dean could die and it would still be okay. As long as Sammy was safe.

Dean was pinned to the ceiling now, his limbs spread, nothing he could do to fight back. "I MEAN IT, SAMMY!" he screamed. "STAY THERE, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS!"

Then the ceiling behind him burst into flames.

Dean screamed, he knew that much. And that was about all that he remembered. At some point, he must have passed out, because the next time he opened his eyes, he was lying in a hospital bed with Dad sitting beside him, hiding his face in his hands.

"Dad," Dean slurred, with a lot of struggle. His entire body felt heavy, like he could barely keep his eyes open. And there was a fog in his head that made forming words almost unbelievably hard, even though the fog wasn't enough to completely cover up the pain. It felt like his entire torso was still burning.

Dad looked up, the slightest bit of hope appearing on his face, but it was obvious that he'd been crying.

No. That didn't make sense. Dad was strong, he didn't cry.

"Why am I alive?" Dean asked. He had to concentrate hard to make the words come out right, but he had to ask this now. It couldn't wait.

"I don't know," Dad said, then cleared his throat. "The doctors said that there are second- and third-degree burns covering most of your back and some of your arms and chest. You've got a long road ahead of you, Dean."

Dean just nodded, barely comprehending any of that. Or, he knew what Dad was saying, but he had a hard time thinking that it was important. "Where's Sammy?" Probably down getting something to eat. Or maybe at Bobby's, Dad wouldn't want him in the hospital until Dean was doing better.

Dad was shaking his head, though.

"He's gone," Dad said, and for a second, Dean thought that his dad was going to start crying again.

For a long minute, Dean just stared at his dad, not understanding. It was like Dean heard the words, but his mind couldn't put them together in a way that made sense, because there was no way that Sam could be _gone_.

Then Dean got it.

"They broke down the closet door," Dean said, talking more to himself than to Dad. "Or they burned him out, made him leave the bathroom." Dean should have thought about that. He should've realized that the sigils wouldn't hold them out forever. He should've-

"No," Dad said softly. "The bathroom wasn't even touched."

Dean froze. "But I drew the sigils," he whispered. "They couldn't have gotten to Sammy unless the sigils were destroyed first."

Unless-

He didn't want to finish that thought. But when he looked at his dad, and saw the judgment in his eyes, Dean realized that Dad was thinking the exact same thing that Dean was.

The sigils hadn't worked. Dean had drawn them wrong.

All of that time learning how to draw them, and the one time that it mattered, Dean had fucking done it _wrong._

Dean couldn't blame his dad for crying now. Because Dean was crying, too.

* * *

Sam wasn't stupid. Dean and Dad might not tell him much, but Sam still knew a lot. Some of it came from listening to them when they talked about hunts – even though they didn't know that he was listening, and would've been mad if they ever found out that he was spying on them. Other things came from reading Dad's journal at night, after Dean was already passed out in bed. Dean thought that he should be protected from all this dark stuff until he was older, but Sam had wanted to know about what kinds of things were out there and ready to kill him.

Which was how Sam knew that he was in Hell.

The demons hadn't killed him. They hadn't even hurt him at all, except for their nails digging into his skin when they gripped him too tightly. Sam had thought that you could only go to Hell if you were dead, but apparently he had been wrong, because he didn't have a doubt that that was where he was.

They passed rows of cells, hundreds of people screaming for help, trying to reach for him through the bars. The Yellow-Eyed demon kept his hands on Sam's shoulders, pushing him forward, not letting him stop. Not that Sam wanted to. He stared straight in front of him, because if he looked at all of these people, then he was going to start crying harder than he already was.

Finally, they left the torture behind. One second, they'd been passing a woman being stretched on a rack, and the next, they were in front of a palace, as though they had transported between one step and the next.

The room that the demon brought him to was brightly lit, and cozier than Sam had been expecting. He hadn't thought that anything in Hell could be described like that, or could be this nice, and that kind of scared him more than the torture had. At least with the torture stuff, he'd known to expect it.

"Sit," the demon said, and steered him into a chair that was more comfortable than half the furniture in the motels that he was used to. Sam sat stiffly, his hands clenched around his knees, trying to keep himself from shaking. He had to be brave, like Dean had been.

Dean hadn't given up even when the demons had been hurting him. Sam had heard Dean scream, and had also heard him scream at Sam that it was okay, even as he'd been burned. Now, Sam didn't even know if his brother was still alive. The demons had said that he was, but they could lie.

Sam wasn't going to think about that, though. Dean was alive because he had to be, because the demons had promised that he was, and Sam was going to get through this by acting like his brother would have. And that meant that he couldn't be afraid.

Sam used the back of one hand to wipe the tears and snot from his face, then looked up at the demon, trying to glare at him. "What do you want with me?"

The demon smiled, looking pleased with the question. "Everything, Sam," he said. "You're the one."

Sam frowned. "I'm the what?"

"The one," the demon repeated, moving a step closer to Sam. And Sam couldn't help it, he shrank back in his seat. Even pretending to be Dean wasn't enough to keep him from shying away from the demon, desperate to keep the demon as far away from him as possible.

The demon just looked even more amused as he took another step closer toward Sam, and this time, there wasn't anywhere for Sam to go, or any way that he could get away. "We planned on having a competition, to see who would be the strongest. But that was before we knew who you were. Now, we don't need anyone else. We've already decided. You're the one."

"What does that mean?" And Sam's voice sounded small and scared, damn it. Dean would be spitting at the demon and making rude comments, Sam just knew it. But Sam didn't think that he was strong enough to be like Dean, after all. "What am I?"

The demon's smile almost seemed to soften as he knelt in front of Sam. And that was another thing that was way worse than the creepy grins of earlier. Demons weren't supposed to look at anybody like that, like they were almost happy or proud or loving. And that especially wasn't how they were supposed to look at Sam. The demons should hate him for being a hunter.

Sam was crying again. He'd only managed to stop for a couple of minutes, and already he was starting back up again.

"Lucifer's true vessel," the demon whispered, with something that sounded almost like awe in his voice. "The best of all my special children. There is no doubt in my mind that you will be the one that we need."

He drew a knife, and Sam flinched away, expecting the torture to start now, because that was what happened when you were brought to Hell, even if Sam was special somehow. But the demon didn't hurt Sam. Instead, he used the knife to slice open his own hand, and held it out toward Sam's face.

Sam realized what was about to happen, and shoved the hand away. His stomach clenched at the thought, until he was sure that he was going to be sick.

"You can try to fight it, Sam, but it's going to happen, anyway," the demon said, his voice low and almost soothing. "This is who you will become. And it will be so much easier if you just give in and accept that there is no escape."

Sam still tried to fight, even tried to jump to his feet so that he could run away, but he didn't even manage to get out of his chair before the demon was standing over him. The demon's bloody hand was still in front of Sam's mouth, and now his other hand was tangled in Sam's hair, forcing his head back. Sam shook his head and closed his mouth tight, still trying to protect himself. But the demon was stronger than he was. In just a second, he got Sam's mouth open, and there was nothing that Sam could do to keep the blood from dripping down his throat.

After it was over, Sam just sat there, shaking. He dry heaved, and for a second, he thought that he was actually going to be sick, and he hoped that he would, that he could get the blood out of his body that way. Even though the demon would probably just make him drink more.

"There, there, that's a good boy," the demon said. His hand was still in Sam's hair, but the touch was softer now, as he stroked Sam's head and gently pushed his bangs out of his eyes. "My little demon child," he whispered.

And Sam shuddered, because the demon was right. That was what Sam was now, with this blood inside of him. He swore that he could feel it inside him, already pumping through his veins, changing him. Making him twisted. Disgusting.

Demonic.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ten years later_

"And why exactly am I on Earth with you today?" Sam asked, leveling a glare at Crowley, who was standing across from Sam and looking too innocent. When Sam had been taken to Hell over a decade ago, the first thing he had learned was that no demon could be trusted. If they tried to act as though they were on your side, then that was the time when you should brace yourself to be stabbed in the back.

Or, better yet, that was when you should prepare yourself to rip out their throats before they got the chance to touch you.

And Crowley had to know that. Sometimes, Sam thought that the demon took sick pleasure in acting as suspicious as possible, making it clear that he had a plan, and tormenting Sam with the fact that he didn't know exactly what Crowley was thinking.

There were times when Sam wanted to kill Crowley. Or, he knew that that wouldn't be possible – Sam was never allowed near anything that could be used as a fatal weapon – but there were several times when Sam had to physically restrain himself from forcing Crowley into a devils trap and hurting him until he talked. But Sam never did. For one, Azazel thought that Crowley was useful, that he would help them to raise Lucifer and claim Earth for themselves. He would be very displeased if Sam ever did anything to hurt him, and Azazel's displeasure was not a thing that was pleasant to weather. Sam had grown immune to most torture, but Azazel always sent Alistair to do his dirty work, and Alistair was the one demon that could still make Sam scream.

But more than that, Sam knew that Azazel was wrong about where Crowley's allegiance lay. Which was precisely why Sam let the demon walk around unharmed.

"Oh, the typical reasons," Crowley said with a wave of one hand. He and Sam were in the office of Crowley's mansion, the one that he used when he was doing business on Earth. Sam was sitting – Crowley had insisted on that, and led Sam to the lowest chair in the room, so that Crowley could lean back against his desk and loom over Sam's head.

Sam didn't mind. Crowley could pretend that he had the power if that was what he wanted. They both knew that Sam could destroy him if he wished to, even if Sam didn't actually have a way to kill the demon.

"We're getting closer to releasing Lilith, you know," Crowley continued. "Azazel and I were talking, and we decided that it would be better to increase the amount of time on Earth, to ensure-"

"I know the reasons for bringing me to Earth," Sam said, in a voice that made even Crowley fall silent. But this explanation was pointless, and Sam wasn't in the mood to listen to Crowley pretend that he was answering Sam's question.

Most of Sam's upbringing had been spent in Hell, feeding on demon blood and being trained to use the powers that it gave him, while Azazel carefully used blood and pain to try to mold Sam to his will. But beginning about a year ago – a year in Earth time, that was – Azazel had begun thinking that it was time for Sam to leave Hell. Not permanently, of course, but long enough for him to adjust to Earth, and to learn the different ways that his powers worked when he was away from Hell. Crowley had been all too eager to volunteer for this particular part of Sam's training.

Azazel had agreed, thinking that Crowley wanted to do what he could to raise Lucifer's vessel. And Crowley did, but his motivations were different than Azazel believed.

Sam had seen the way that Crowley watched him, the way that his expression changed when Azazel wasn't around. Crowley wasn't helping Sam out of the goodness of his heart, if a demon actually had one. He wanted Sam the way that one would want a useful weapon.

Sam knew it, and he was fine with it. That was the way that Sam intended to use Crowley, after all.

"My question," Sam said, "is why you insisted that I come to you so quickly." Azazel might believe that it was necessary for Sam to become accustomed to using his powers while on Earth – they would be necessary when it was time to free Lilith and help her to break the seals, after all – but that was far from the only training that Azazel had him complete. Sam hadn't been scheduled to return to Earth for several Hell years, until Crowley had changed their plans.

"As I explained to Azazel, my training is of the utmost importance," Crowley said. "I would hate for us to spend so many hundreds of years putting our plan into motion, only to have your powers fail you because you don't have enough experience with using them on Earth."

Sam didn't react, just glared at Crowley, waiting for the real explanation. And a second later, Crowley gave it.

"There is also one particular deal that I would like you to handle," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I believe that he should be ready to sell his soul any minute now, and trust me, you would be quite angry if I had left you out of this one." Crowley paused, tilting his head to the side, and then his smile widened. "In fact, I believe that the deal is just beginning to go down now."

Sam stared at Crowley's face for another second, recognizing the look that he had in his eyes, which meant that he wasn't going to share any further information. Sam narrowed his eyes, biting back the spark of anger that ran through him. "Fine," he said shortly. He stood and carefully smoothed the wrinkles from his jacket. "I'll bite. Send me to this man."

"With pleasure," Crowley said as he stepped forward to place a hand on Sam's shoulder. One of the more frustrating limitations of being on Earth was that Sam couldn't transport himself the way that he could when he was in Hell. Sam might be as demonic as Azazel could make him, but his human body still bound him, preventing him from moving as he wished. He was forced to rely on other demons when he wanted to move around, and even though those demons were sometimes ones that he himself controlled, the fact that they were necessary was a constant source of frustration.

Crowley paused, his hand hovering an inch above Sam. "Find me if you want my help," he said, and then lowered his hand to touch Sam.

A second later, Sam was standing in the middle of a dirt road in some area that he didn't recognize, but which was inconsequential. He glanced up at the sky and guessed that it was midmorning – after being in Hell for so long, he had lost track of what time it was on Earth – then turned slowly to face the man who had made this deal, the one that Crowley had been so excited about.

Sam recognized him immediately, and understood why Crowley had chosen to send him to make this deal.

"Dean Winchester," Sam said slowly, and felt a smile stretch across his face as he regarded the man who had once been his brother. "How interesting to see you again, after all these years."

* * *

From the moment that Dean had first seen Dad lying in the hospital bed, he had known what he was going to do.

It had started with Dean and Dad hunting the Yellow-Eyed demon, and both of them had been determined that this time, that bastard was going to die – eventually. But they'd had a few answers to rip out of him first, like what the hell he had done with Sam all those years ago. By now, they both knew that it was probably too late to save Sammy. But they still wanted answers, and nothing was going to stop them until they had learned everything that they had wanted to know.

Things hadn't exactly gone according to plan. The demon had possessed Dad, and even though he'd shouted at Dean to just trap him while he could and get the information they needed, Dean just couldn't do it. So he'd exorcised the demon, and they'd been driving away when a semi truck had plowed into their side.

Dean spent a long time sitting by his dad's bedside, trying to talk himself out of it, telling himself that Dad would wake from this coma on his own, that Dean didn't need to do this. None of it worked. Which was how he had ended up down at the crossroads.

Dean got the feeling that Dad would be pissed when he woke up. He wouldn't want Dean to do this, Dean was sure. Dad might not be the cuddly type, but he'd changed ever since Sammy had been taken, become more protective of Dean than he'd been before. So Dean knew with absolute certainty that Dad would want to be the one sacrificing himself for his son, not the other way around.

Well, that was just too damn bad. Dean had been the one to let the Yellow-Eyed demon escape, just like he he'd been the one to let it steal Sam. And this time, Dean had done it on purpose to save Dad's life, and there was no fucking way that Dad was going to die anyway. Dean wasn't going to lose anyone else.

So he was going to make a deal.

He had an empty matchbox that he'd used to hold his picture and all of the other things that he'd needed. He buried it in the dirt, then straightened, waiting. For a few seconds, Dean just stood there, feeling like an idiot and wondering if he'd somehow done something wrong. Then he felt a presence behind him, and turned around.

The demon stood behind him, dressed in an impeccable suit, his long hair brushed neatly out of his face. Something about his appearance put Dean on edge. Usually, he dealt with demons that had jumped into the first body they could reach. If Dean had had to guess what a demon would look like when they'd had time to pick their vessel and get all dressed up, he would've said that it would be something wilder, something that would make it obvious that this person wasn't quite human. Instead, this man could have passed for any normal businessman. Except for the eyes. They hadn't changed color – they still looked human – but they looked dead inside.

And there was something else about this guy that bothered him, too. Dean didn't know what it was, though, which just made him more nervous.

"Dean Winchester." The demon smiled, though only his mouth moved – the rest of his face stayed exactly the same, and his eyes looked just as soulless as before.

Dean really hated those eyes. For some reason, they were creepier than the ones he normally saw on demons. And that was saying a lot, because Dean was not one to get creeped easily.

"How interesting to see you again, after all these years," the demon continued, and took a step closer.

"You know me, huh?" Dean asked, and even managed a hint of a cocky grin, to let this demon shit know that he wasn't scared of it. "Let me guess – I booted your ass back to Hell somewhere down the line? Because if I did, then I hope you're not too bitter about it, because I get the feeling that I'll be a valuable customer."

The demon shook his head. It was just the slightest movement, almost imperceptible. "Not exactly," he said, and then the corner of his mouth lifted, making his face look almost amused. "Though that could be one way to say it, I suppose."

"Then what?" Dean asked. "Why would some demon know about me?"

Now, the demon definitely looked amused. "Everyone in Hell knows about our family," he said, slowly circling Dean, never taking his eyes off of him. "John Winchester, the Righteous Man. And his two sons, the hunter and the Hellspawn."

Dean tensed. "What do you mean?" he demanded, taking a step closer. His hands twitched, just itching to pull out his gun and send some salt rounds at this bastard, get some answers. Dean had to remind himself that he'd come here to work with the demon, not to send it back to Hell where it belonged.

Letting the demon just stand there without killing it felt wrong on a fundamental level, but he'd do it for Dad.

"You really don't recognize me?" the demon asked, then gave a small shrug. "It has been ten years, I suppose, but even so. We were brothers, Dean. You're going to hurt my feelings."

"No," Dean said at once. His hands clenched into fists, and he had to concentrate to keep himself from shaking.

"Who do you think I am, Dean?" the demon asked, then immediately answered his own question. "You know it's true, don't you? You recognize me. Little Sammy, all grown up. I'm guessing you didn't think that the family reunion would happen here, of all places."

"No!" A second later, the gun was in Dean's hands and aimed straight for the demon's chest. "Don't you dare say that name. I don't know why you're pretending to be my brother, but it will be the last mistake you make."

The demon raised his eyebrows. "You don't believe me?"

"My brother isn't – wasn't – some demon," Dean spat. "He wouldn't have turned into this."

"So you think," the demon said. "A few centuries in Hell changes a person." He studied Dean's face, and smirked at whatever he saw there. "Really, Dean, where did you think that the demons had taken me? Did you think that they would keep me someplace nice and happy, all tea parties and rainbows? They're called demons for a reason, and believe me, you can't even imagine the things that they're capable of." He took a step closer. "How long do you think it took them to break poor little twelve-year-old Sammy? Whatever you guessed, I can guarantee, it was a shorter time than that."

Dean couldn't help it, he shuddered, and pushed away all the images that that brought to mind. It wasn't like he hadn't had ten years to think about them already, to imagine the things that could be happening.

Then he tightened his grip on his gun. "No," he said a third time, his voice steadier this time, but that was only because he refused to let this lying-piece-of-shit demon see that he was getting to Dean. "My brother's dead. That's what happened to him."

The demon waved one hand, dismissing that. "You would have found the body," he said. "They wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of taking me away if they just wanted me dead."

Dean didn't have a response for that, so he just clicked the safety off his gun without a word.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

"You know that it's true," the demon said, as if he had read Dean's mind. And maybe he had. Dean shuddered again, and had to resist the urge to cover his head with his hands, as stupid as the impulse was. But he still felt like he had to find a way to hide himself somehow. And even if it had just been a lucky guess, Dean still didn't like what that meant – that he was easy enough to read that some random demon could predict his thoughts and use them to mess with him.

The demon kept walking forward, one step after another, dragging it out. Dean kept the gun pointed at the demon's chest, and refused to back up. "You know that it's true," the demon said again. He was close now, only a few feet away, and with one large step, he closed the distance completely, grabbing the gun and holding it in place, the barrel pressed against the middle of his chest. "Shoot me, if I'm not your brother."

Dean should. He really should.

"You can't do it, can you," the demon said, not making it a question. He sounded completely confident, as though there was not a doubt in his mind. "That's good, Dean. We shouldn't be hurting each other."

Dean's hands were shaking. He lowered his gun.

"Sammy," he said, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't keep his voice steady.

"I haven't used that name in over a thousand years now," Sam said with a shrug, "but I suppose you can call me that if you prefer."

"I thought you were dead," Dean said. "I really thought you were dead. Or, I- I hoped that you were dead." Because part of him had known that Sam was probably still out there, being kept somewhere where he and Dad would never find him, and Dean knew exactly what would be happening to him – or, at least, Dean knew enough to know that death would be better than what demons could do to a person if they had time on their side and nothing to stop them.

Sam raised one eyebrow, looking unimpressed and a little impatient, like he was waiting for Dean to get to the point.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked.

"I should be asking you that," Sam said. "You're the one who summoned a demon, after all. I'm just here to answer your call."

"You're a crossroads demon," Dean said. Somehow, realizing that was even worse than even seeing Sam. Because Dean saw the person in front if him, but he still couldn't connect the cruel man in front of him with the bratty little kid that Dean had practically raised. He just couldn't connect the two in his mind. But saying it like that drove it home.

His little brother Sammy was a demon.

"I work for one, at least," Sam said. "I can't make deals myself, what with technically still having a human body and all, but I collect contracts on another demon's behalf."

"Wait," Dean said. "You're still human?"

Sam looked at Dean for a long moment. "I suppose that depends on how you look at it," he finally said, then clapped his hands together once. "Now, why did you call on me? It must be something big, if it's enough to make the great hunter Dean Winchester work with the demons who destroyed half his family."

Dean cleared his throat, suddenly remembering the reason why he was here. "Dad's hurt bad," he said. He looked away from Sam for a moment, starting hard at the ground until his eyes cleared and he was sure that he wasn't going to lose it and start acting like a frickin' baby. Then he faced Sam again, and said with a steady voice, "He's not going to make it unless I do something. So here I am."

"You're willing to sell your soul for your dad." Sam considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Admirable."

"So we have a deal?" Dean asked.

Sam blinked. "I never said that."

"Come on," Dean said. "My dad – _our_ dad – is going to die if we don't do something." That had to mean something to him. Screw ten years in Hell, or a thousand years, or however long Sam had been gone. They were family, and that wasn't nothing. Somewhere in there, Sam had to still care.

If he did, though, it didn't show on his face. "I know," he said simply. "And I will save him, but I don't want your soul. I need something else from you."

Dean tensed, not sure if the feeling in the pit of his stomach was dread or hope or some weird combination of the two. Sam didn't want to drag Dean's soul down to Hell – that had to be a good sign, right? If Sam really was all gone, then he wouldn't have hesitated to take Dean's soul. But he'd said no to it. That had to mean that he still cared.

Unless he was about to ask for something worse.

"What?" Dean finally asked, since Sam didn't look like he was about to come out and say it anytime soon.

"Your help," Sam said.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Help with what?"

"Don't look so scared, Dean, you're going to like this deal," Sam said, then looked Dean straight in the eye. "You're going to help me to summon Azazel. The demon who killed your mom and kidnapped me," Sam explained, clearly realizing that Dean didn't know this demon's name. Then Sam smiled, looking fiercer than Dean had thought that he'd be able to look, his eyes lighting with what looked almost like pleasure. Despite all the times that he'd smiled, this was the first time that he looked like he was really, truly enjoying himself.

It wasn't a pleasant expression, though. Forget everything that Dean had thought earlier about Sam looking like any random businessman off the street. With this expression on his face, there was no way that anyone could think that Sam was anything but a monster.

Dean instantly felt guilty for thinking the word, like he was betraying his brother by even letting it cross his mind. He couldn't think of a word that described him better, though.

Maybe Sam did have some sort of mindreading powers, but if he did hear what Dean had just thought about him, it clearly didn't bother him in the slightest. He just continued smoothly, his feral smile still in place. "And once we have Azazel trapped," he said, slowly and with obvious relish, "I'm going to take that fancy gun of yours, and I'm going to kill him."


	3. Chapter 3

When Dean and Sam arrive at the hospital room, there's a nurse bent over Dad, checking his vital signs. "How's he doing?" Dean asked, rushing forward the last few steps into the room.

The nurse straightened. She was one of the ones that Dean had met last night, when Dad had first been brought in, though Dean hadn't bothered to remember her name. "No change," she said, sympathy written on every inch of her face. Dean clenched his jaw and nodded, then turned away, heading for the duffle bag that he'd thrown into the corner of the room earlier. "And who's this?" the nurse asked in a falsely cheerful voice that Dean hated. Dean didn't even have to turn around to know that she was talking about Sam.

Dean cleared his throat, and for a split second, he didn't know how to answer. Then he said, "He's my brother."

"Oh, that's nice," the nurse said, and sounded like she meant it, like she really was happy for the two of them. "I'm glad that you're not alone anymore."

"Yeah," Dean said shortly. "Yeah. Sammy's back now. Isn't that nice." There was something off about his voice, and even Dean didn't know exactly what it was.

"I'm just glad that I can be here to help Dean," Sam said smoothly. His voice was completely empty of all emotion, and Dean found himself having to suppress a shudder. But clearly the nurse hadn't noticed, because when Dean grabbed the bag and turned back around, she was smiling at Sam.

"I'll be back to check on your dad in a few hours," she promised Sam, and Sam smiled down at her. Then she turned and left. The moment that she was out of the room, the smile slid off Sam's face, and it went back to its old, emotionless look.

"You have what you need?" Sam asked, turning toward Dean.

"Uh, yeah," Dean said. He unzipped the duffle and pulled out Dad's journal, then tossed the bag back into the corner. "Yeah, the spell you want should be in here."

Sam stepped closer. "Let me see it," he said, holding out one hand.

Dean's hands instinctively tightened around the book. "I can find it faster than you'd be able to," he said. "I know about where it is."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You don't trust me?" he asked, and before Dean got the chance to come up with an answer, he shrugged. "Wise choice," he said, and moved over to the chair closest to Dad's bedside, dropping into it smoothly. "By all means," he said, gesturing to the chair next to him, "look through it yourself. Just let me know when you find the spell that _we_ want."

Dean nodded and took the seat that Sam had pointed him to, which was so close to Sam's chair that they're knees almost knocked together as Dean sat down. Dean was tense, but he didn't let himself scoot the chair back. This was _Sammy_. Dean wasn't going to be afraid of his brother, no matter what he might have been turned into.

It took longer than Dean had thought to find the spell, but after maybe twenty minutes of looking, he finally found exactly what Sam – what _they_ – wanted. Dean glanced up, about ready to tell Sam that he had it, but paused. Sam was staring at Dad, and even though there was still nothing on his face, he hadn't looked away in the whole time that they'd been here.

"You okay?" Dean asked, trying to sound concerned without also sounding hopeful. He didn't want Sam to know that Dean was hoping that the answer was no, that Sam was getting torn up inside because their dad was hurt. Not that Dean would ever want his brother to be in pain. But, well, in this case, he did.

If Sam was hurting over this, then it'd at least mean that he could still feel something.

"Yes, of course," Sam said, voice smooth as he turned to Dean. "Did you find the spell?"

Dean nodded, but didn't hold it out for Sam to see. Not yet. "What have you been thinking about?"

Sam tilted his head, giving Dean a look as though he thought that that was an odd question, but finally answered, "I've been running scenarios in my head, trying to plan the best way to perform this spell. We're only going to get one chance, we can't afford to mess up."

"But," Dean said, and shook his head, trying to find the words. "You've been staring at _Dad_ this whole time. Don't you feel something?"

"Impatient," Sam said at once, narrowing his eyes at Dean. "The sooner we perform this spell, the sooner that this can end. I'd think that you would want that."

No, that hadn't been what Dean meant. "You can see our dad lying there, all- all broken and hurt and _dying_, and you don't feel a thing for him?"

Sam's eyes narrowed further. "There is one thing that you need to understand about me," he said, his voice low and precise. "I may have been your brother once, but that relationship died the day that I was taken down to Hell. I am not your little Sammy. I'm not even human, though you seem to be refusing to acknowledge that." He paused, looking Dean straight in the eye and letting that sink in, then said, "Now, can I look at the spell?"

Dean didn't move in time, so Sam leaned forward and pulled the journal from Dean's hands, then settled into his chair, scanning the page. "Huh," he said after a moment. "It looks simpler than I thought, though I'm not quite sure where we're going to get Acadia or Oils of Abramelin."

"You don't have Hell friends that could fetch them for us?" Dean asked.

Sam looked up at Dean, and for a second, his eyes flashed with anger. "You don't have friends in Hell," he said, almost condescending. "You have demons that you torture, and demons that torture you. But no, every demon that I control reports back to Azazel. Or Crowley," Sam added, looking thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. "Crowley has wanted to overthrow Azazel for centuries now, but I doubt he'd actually do a thing to help me. He might point me in the right direction and turn a blind eye, but if I fail, then he'll want to be able to claim that it wasn't his doing."

"Okay," Dean said, not entirely sure how to respond to that. He decided to just focus on the spell – that was easier to think about, anyway. "I have a friend who can get us those things." And Dean had to call Bobby, anyway. Actually, Bobby would be pissed that Dean hadn't told him about Dad's injuries already.

Sam nodded and looked back at the book. "We need blessed candles," he said, then snorted. "The power of God, used to summon a demon." He looked far too amused by that, and something about his expression was even more disturbing that his emotionless face.

"I got those," Dean said quickly. "There are about a dozen in the trunk of the Impala. I've got the chalk and matches that we need, too, and we can just stop somewhere to buy a bowl to mix the spell in. The only other thing we need is the mark of the demon we're trying to summon." He shook his head. "Man, I don't even know what that means."

"The Mark of Azazel," Sam said. "It's his defining symbol. Don't worry, I know it."

"Good," Dean said. "Then I guess we have everything."

"Yes." Sam bent down the corner of the page to mark it. Dean winced at that – he'd been doing his best to keep the book in good shape – but didn't comment, just watched at Sam snapped the book closed and handed it back to Dean. "Go call your friend, then we'll go fetch the rest of the supplies."

"Wait," Dean said, holding up one hand. "You're coming with me?"

"Of course, Dean," Sam said with a smile. "I don't trust you, either."

* * *

Dean's car had been towed to a junkyard after the crash, meaning that the two of them had to find some way to travel there. That turned out to be a nonissue, as Dean simply walked up to the closest car and, with a quick glance over his shoulder and a muttered order for Sam to keep watch, broke into it in just a few seconds.

"I'm impressed," Sam said as he climbed into the passenger seat. For once, he was being almost serious.

"Yeah?" Dean asked, and there was even a hint of a smile on his face. "Because of my badass skills?"

"Because I thought that you were more moral than this," Sam said. "Stealing cars? That doesn't seem like something that a good person would do."

Dean's face fell, and he grumbled something about doing what had to be done, then hit the button to the radio.

It didn't take long for Dean to find a rock station, and for most of the ride, that was the only sound in the car. But Sam saw the way that Dean looked at him, glancing his way ever few seconds, obviously wanting to ask something but too afraid to actually say the words. It was amusing, really, which was why Sam just sat there instead of asking Dean what he wanted. After all, if Dean wasn't brave enough to say the question, then he probably didn't deserve to know.

Finally, Dean cleared his throat – he was doing that quite a lot today – and turned down the music until it almost faded into the background. "You remember the Impala, don't you?"

"Somewhat," Sam said.

"Somewhat?" Dean repeated. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean that the memories are vague," Sam said. Dean was giving him an odd look now, and Sam barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Don't look so surprised. It has been ten years, after all. I would've forgotten the car even if I had been on Earth this whole time."

"I guess so," Dean said, then cleared his throat yet again. "How long were you in Hell? I mean, you said a thousand years, but…"

"Was that an exaggeration?" Sam finished for him. He looked away. "I wish that it was. Time moves differently there."

"How?" Dean asked. His voice was small, sounding like he wished that he didn't have to ask.

"Well, I suppose I should say that it moves differently for humans," Sam corrected himself. "Demons live the time at about the same rate that a human does on Earth, but for the human souls, they experience over a hundred years a torment in the space of just twelve months." He looked back over at Dean. "It's an efficient system, actually."

Dean was staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles stood out white on his hands. "And for you?"

"I started out… maybe not experiencing the years the way that the other humans did, but it was close," Sam said. "The years became shorter as I grew older."

"And you got some sort of demon powers?" Dean asked. Sam nodded, and Dean demanded, "What kind?"

Sam tilted his head, considering whether he should answer. Dean continued, "I mean, I know that you can teleport and stuff, from the way that you showed up behind me earlier."

Sam decided not to say that he couldn't transport on his own, that he needed another demon to do it for him. Dean could do without that particular bit of information. Instead, he began listing off, "I'm stronger than the average human. Faster, with better senses and faster reflexes. I can heal from things that would kill anyone else." That particular ability had been tested, at length, by Alistair after Azazel had grown angry with Sam and sent him to be punished. "And I can control lesser demons, though – as I said before – they all report back to the demons who raised me." He paused, thinking it over, then added, "Telekinesis. Most of my other powers are ones that all demons share." Then he smiled. "There is one ability that is unique to me, though. Or, at least, I've never met anyone else who can kill their fellow demons with just his mind."

"You can do that?" Dean asked, voice going sharp from surprise. Then he face turned suspicious. "Why do you need the Colt, then?"

"I'm not sure if my power would be strong enough to use on Azazel," Sam said truthfully. The demons had trained him to use his power, knowing that he would one day need to use it against Lilith in order to break the final seal, but they were not stupid. They believed that Sam was loyal, and that he would never dream of turning against Hell, but they also knew better than to give him a weapon that could be used against them. Every time he had used his powers before, he had been carefully monitored to make sure that he didn't get out of hand.

"And the supplies necessary to fuel this power are far harder to get our hands on the supplies for the spell," Sam added. Unlike the rest of Sam's powers, he needed to constantly drink demon blood in order to keep this power working, and Azazel would never allow him to do that. And while it would be easy to trap and drain a random demon, it wouldn't be long before Azazel discovered what Sam had done, and put a stop to it. The spell and the gun would give them more of the element of surprise.

Not to mention that he doubted that Dean would allow Sam to drink demon blood in front of him, despite all the times that Sam had done it before. Dean would probably be sick if he knew of the things that Sam had done. It was enough to make Sam hope that Dean would ask, but he didn't. Instead, Dean just glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "So, is this what happens to all humans who head to Hell? They get these demon powers?

"No," Sam said at once, then amended, "Well, yes. Not everyone, but that is how demons are made. After years of torment, they begin torturing each other, and once their humanity is gone, they return to Earth as a demon. But no, that wasn't what happened to me." He tapped his fingers along the armrest, considering the best way to do this, and settled for saying, "I was a special case, as you can probably tell."

For a minute, Dean didn't say anything. That was alright. Sam just waited, knowing that the question would come eventually. And sure enough, after a few seconds, Dean gave in and asked, "Then where do your powers come from?"

Sam smiled, keeping his eyes locked on Dean's face as he spoke. He had the feeling that his response was going to be amusing, and he didn't want to miss it. "From the demon blood that they made me drink."

Sam had been right. The way that Dean choked was satisfying, as was the way that his hands jerked on the wheel, nearly sending the car into the other lane. Luckily, there was no one else around, and Dean got everything back under control after just a moment. "They gave you demon blood," he said, and his voice was flat. Sam knew that it didn't come from lack of emotion. It was as though Dean didn't know which emotion he should show, and so he settled for showing none of them. "That's what they did to you in Hell?"

"Yes," Sam said. "The very first thing, in fact. Azazel brought me to his home, and then forced his blood down my throat again."

Dean looked like he was trying to keep his face steady, but he couldn't stop himself from gagging at the thought. Sam just watched, waiting for Dean to pick out the key word.

And Dean did. "Wait," he said suddenly. "_Again?_"

Sam nodded, with pleasure. "I drank demon blood for the first time when I was only six months old, when Azazel broke into the house and killed your mother." Sam had learned this about two Hell months after he'd been kidnapped. At the time, it had broken him, to know that his mother had only been murdered because Azazel had wanted to reach Sam, and then to find out that his mother had been the one to make the deal with Azazel which allowed him to infect Sam in the first place. The thought had long since ceased to bother him, however.

Dean's jaw clenched, and he didn't say anything more, or even ask about why Azazel had wanted to infect Sam as a baby. Sam was surprised at that – he'd expected another round of questions – but didn't say anything. Instead, he just let Dean turn the music back up, loud enough to make talking impossible.

Even so, as Dean returned his hand to the wheel and stared straight in front of him, Sam was still barely able to hear him mumble, "_Our_ mother."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up at the junkyard where the Impala had been towed. Dean groaned the moment that the car came into view. "Oh, baby," he said sadly, jumping out of the car as soon as it was parked and rushing over to the Impala. "Don't worry," he said, stroking the side of the car. "I'll get you fixed up as soon as I can, I promise. You're not going to be here for much longer."

Sam chuckled as he followed Dean over to the car, torn between amusement and disgust. "Do you touch women that way, or are you only that intimate with your car?"

Dean shrugged, the corner of his mouth pulling up, just slightly. "Trust me, I know a lot about touching women," he said, then patted his car and added, "She's special, though."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You act as though it's human."

"She might as well be," Dean said, giving the car another pat on the side. "Baby's part of the family."

"You have an odd definition of family, then," Sam said.

Dean immediately glanced at Sam, the humor draining off his face. "I guess I do, then." He shook his head. "Help me to get the trunk open."

The back of the car wasn't as damaged as the front, luckily. It only took a couple of tries for the two of them to get the trunk popped open, revealing an assortment of weapons like which Sam had never seen. Even Alistair hadn't had so many – or, at least, Alistair hadn't kept this many weapons all in one place, though Sam was sure that Alistair had more than he'd ever let Sam see.

Dean shifted a few things aside, then nodded, his shoulders relaxing and a look of relief spreading over his face. "Here we go," he said, pulling out the Colt, then checking the barrel. "And we've still got the last bullet."

"There's only one left?" Sam frowned. He was sure that there had been more bullets when the Winchesters had first found the gun. Azazel had come right out and said as much, when he'd thought that Sam wasn't around to hear it. But apparently the Winchesters had gone through quite a few of them.

Dean nodded. "So we'd better make it count." For a moment, it looked like he was going to hand the gun over to Sam right then. After a moment, though, Dean stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket instead. "Here's the other stuff we need," he added, handing Sam a half dozen candles. Sam winced as he took them. It didn't hurt him to touch them, even though they were blessed, but they still felt wrong in his hands.

Sam carried the candles to the stolen car and carefully set them in the back seat, and turned around, in time to see Dean pocket a book of matches and a box of chalk. Sam nodded. "Now we just need to buy a bowl and get the ingredients that your friend is bringing, and we'll be ready to perform the spell."

He started toward the passenger side of the car, but Dean stopped him. "Hey," Dean said, jogging after Sam and reaching out a hand, but drawing back a second before he would have touched Sam's shoulder. "We need to empty the Impala before we leave," Dean said, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pocket. "I don't want anyone to see all our weapons and call the cops or something. Not to mention that we spent a long time building our arsenal, I don't want to leave it here to get stolen."

Sam let out a breath, but nodded. "Alright," he said, though he wasn't happy about it. He settled his nerves by reminding himself that he had waited over a hundred years for the chance to perform this spell – a little extra time wouldn't make a difference, not in the long run. And they had to wait until this Bobby that Dean knew arrived with their supplies, and judging from what Dean had said after he'd gotten off the phone, that wouldn't be for a few hours yet. They had time for this.

It still made Sam burn with impatience, though. He stomped down those emotions and followed after Dean. At the very least, he could try to make sure that this took as little time as possible.

Moving the weapons took far longer than Sam had thought that it would. He wasn't sure how Dean and John even managed to fit so many weapons into such a small space, or how they had managed to find so many different places to hide yet more weapons and supplies. By the time that they were even close to finishing, it was the middle of the afternoon, and the back of Sam's shirt had quickly become stuck to his back with sweat – another downside of his stupidly-human body. Sam debated for a moment, then removed his jacket, carefully hanging it across the back of one of the seats. Crowley had impressed him with the need to look put-together and professional at all times – it was a way of intimidating the humans who came to make a deal with you – but finally, Sam decided that it was just too hot to put up with his jacket any longer.

"Good idea," Dean said, and yanked off his own jacket, leaving him in only his tee shirt. He checked to make sure that the Colt was still in the pocket, then wrapped the jacket around the gun and tossed it onto the back seat with much less care than Sam had taken. When he turned to grab another load out of the car, Sam saw his bare arm for the first time.

Specifically, Sam saw the scars that stretched down Dean's entire arm, stopping about halfway down his forearm. Practically everything above that point was scar tissue, and Sam had seen – and taken part in – enough different forms of torture to immediately recognize that these were burn scars.

"Where did you get those?" Sam asked, his curiosity winning out after only a minute of thinking.

Dean glanced down at his arm like he was seeing the burns for the first time, then turned to Sam, an odd expression on his face. Now, Sam could see that the other arm was similar, though not quite as badly scarred. "You don't remember," Dean said slowly. It wasn't a question.

"No," Sam said, wondering why Dean looked so sad. "We've already established that hundreds of years of torture in Hell have erased my memories of being human," Sam added coldly, making Dean wince. Sam shook his head at how pathetic Dean looked now, jaw clenched and every inch of his body screaming of how hurt he was, from the slump in his shoulders to the way his whole body seemed to sag all of a sudden, like he could barely keep himself up. "What?" Sam demanded.

"I tried to keep the demons from getting you," Dean said.

Sam blinked, waiting for Dean to continue. He didn't. "Well, clearly that didn't work."

"Yeah," Dean said, rubbing his left arm – the one with the worst scars. "Yeah, it didn't. But I had to try, you know?" He looked up at Sam. "You really remember nothing about that? You don't know how the demons got you?"

"I don't," Sam admitted. Every memory that he had from the time that he entered Hell was crystal clear, even though there were hundreds of years worth of things to remember. But out of all of his human memories, the one about his kidnapping had been among the first to be forgotten.

Dean nodded, still rubbing his arm. Sam suddenly made the connection. "They burned you."

Dean kept nodding, more to himself than to Sam. "They pinned me to the ceiling, same way that they pinned Mom."

Sam frowned. "I guess you should just be glad that you survived, then," he said after a moment. That wasn't like Azazel. Ordinarily, he would never leave a threat alive, especially not when he had already begun to hurt them. Azazel didn't usually have the strength of will necessary to stop himself once he had gotten going. Clearly, letting Dean live had been some sort of mistake, one that Azazel would quickly learn to regret.

Sam started toward the Impala, ready to grab another armload of weapons, then stopped when he realized that Dean hadn't moved. He was standing where he had been before, in the exact same pose, looking so dejected that Sam began to feel as though it was necessary to say something. He finally settled on, "I'm sorry."

He didn't quite understand the point of those words – demons never used them, after all – but they had the desired effect on Dean, making him snap out of his thoughts. "It's not your fault," he said gruffly, and the two of them got to work moving the last of the arsenal into the stolen car.

"Finally," Dean said once they were done, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and leaning against the side of the Impala and speaking for the first time since their last conversation. "I know that you want to move fast, but just so you know, there is absolutely no way that you're going to stop me from stopping and getting something to eat."

Sam nodded and didn't argue. "Just make sure that it's somewhere fast," he said.

"A drive through, then," Dean said. He pushed himself away from the car and moved to climb into the driver side of the stolen car. Sam had already been sitting in the passenger side, so he just had to close his door and they were ready to go. "Do you want something?" he asked, glancing over at Sam.

"Just buy whatever," Sam said. "It doesn't particularly matter to me."

Dean blinked, staring at Sam for a long moment. Judging by the look on his face, that hadn't been the answer that he was expecting. "You still eat?"

"Only on Earth," Sam said, and grimaced. Earth was far safer – not to mention far less painful – than Hell, but it was also filled with so many more inconveniences that it almost made Sam prefer the eternal torment of the latter. Although, Sam supposed that he had better learn to adjust. He got the feeling that once he had killed Azazel, he would not be welcome downstairs any longer.

Unless, of course, Crowley took power the way that he clearly planned to do. In that case, Crowley would want to keep Sam close, to continue using him as a weapon. But Sam supposed that he'd have to see if that actually came to pass. Even if it did, he wasn't sure if he would trust Crowley enough to work with him for long – he had no doubts that Crowley would sooner stab Sam in the back than let him have any real power.

Those were concerns for a later time, though.

"Okay," Dean said, still sounding surprised. "Where do you want to go, then?"

"It doesn't matter," Sam said. Dean looked like he was going to argue, but Sam cut him off sharply. "I said that I ate, I never said that I enjoyed it. I just need some sort of sustenance to keep this body working, what it is doesn't make the slightest bit of difference to me."

Dean was silent for a minute. "Burgers and fries it is, then," he finally said, and backed out of the junkyard without another word.

Sam noticed that he didn't turn on the radio this time. He wasn't quite sure what that meant, or if it even meant anything at all.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean and Sam got back to the hospital about an hour before Bobby arrived. Sam used the time to pour through Dad's journal, his eyes wide like he was taking in every word. Dean had grabbed a spare piece of paper and scribbled down the Latin chat that he needed to remember for the ritual, and was doing his best to commit it to memory. It was hard to concentrate, though, when all he really wanted to do was watch his dad and his brother. Honestly, he wasn't sure which one of them worried him the most.

Dean had the candles and the bowl set out on the table behind him. Sam had waited in the car while Dean had run into a random store to grab the bowl, and then scoffed when they'd gotten back to the hospital and Sam had realized that Dean had bought one that had Elmo on it. Dean had just shrugged, completely casual, raising his eyebrows as if to say _What can you do?_ And the spell didn't clarify what the bowl had to look like, just that it had to be made of glass, so Sam hadn't protested.

If Sam realized that Dean had bought this because Sesame Street had been Sam's all-time favorite show as a kid, he didn't say a word about it. Not that Dean had been expecting him to.

Dean had been antsy the entire time that they were waiting, and was about two seconds away from jumping out of his seat and pacing the room when Bobby appeared in the doorway. "Hey, Dean," he said quietly, his voice tinged with sympathy. "How are you doing?"

"Good, good," Dean said absently, jumping out of his chair and rushing forward, not even thinking about his answer. "You got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Bobby said, his voice suddenly going harder. "You want to tell me what you're doing summoning a demon, boy?" Then he glanced into the room, apparently noticing Sam for the first time. "And who's that?"

Dean hesitated, not entirely sure how to answer. Sam smiled in that way he had, the one that made him look more demonic than anything else. "Do you want to tell him, or should I?"

The look on Sam's face was enough for Bobby. He immediately turned back to Dean. "Is that boy a demon?" he demanded, then, "You already got one demon just sitting around in your daddy's hospital room, and you're planning on summoning another one?"

"Bobby, it's not what you think," Dean protested, holding up his hands to try to calm him down. "He's not just some demon."

"Dean's right," Sam said. He was still sitting in his chair, but now he'd put the journal aside and crossed his legs, watching Bobby and Dean with amused eyes. "I'm a very special type of demon."

"No, he's not," Dean snapped, then took a deep breath and looked Bobby straight in the eye. "He's my brother, Bobby."

Bobby blinked, then shook his head. "Your brother's dead, boy."

"No, I'm not," Sam said at once. "Admittedly, I spent the past ten years – for you – in Hell, so I can see why everyone would assume that. But I assure you that I'm at least still partially alive." Dean shot him a look at that, wondering what the hell he meant by "partially". Sam must have read the question out of his eyes, because he added, "I don't know if demons can really qualify as living. If they don't, then I suppose that I'm not entirely alive, am I?"

"Yes, you are," Dean said, voice hard.

Bobby grabbed Dean by the elbow. "Come on, I gotta talk to you," he snapped, yanking Dean out into the hall. "Alone," he added, unnecessarily – Sam hadn't moved at all.

They found a secluded area at the end of the hall, where nobody would be able to overhear. Bobby took just long enough to glance around and make sure that there weren't any nurses around, then turned back to Dean and snapped, "Have you lost your marbles? Do you want to tell me what's going on here?"

Dean swallowed. "I can't let Dad die, Bobby. He was the only family I've had left."

"Was," Bobby repeated flatly, his frown deepening. "First of all, no he ain't, kid." Dean's forehead furrowed, not quite getting what Bobby meant, and Bobby shook his head, looking at Dean like he was the stupidest person on the planet. "Family don't end with blood, boy. Geez, I thought that you'd have figured that out by now. If all this goes south, you've still got me."

Dean nodded, feeling bad for not thinking about Bobby before now, but said, "It doesn't change anything. I still got to save Dad."

Bobby snorted. "Yeah, I wasn't expecting to change your mind. I can tell you that you're an idiot for even thinking about it, but it won't change nothing, will it?" Dean shook his head, and Bobby added, "Don't think that I didn't notice that you said 'was'. Like he _was_ your only family, and he's not anymore. You're not actually thinking that that thing in there is your brother, are you?"

"He is, Bobby," Dean said. "I didn't want to believe it myself, but he is." He shrugged, spreading his hands in some vague gesture. "Think about it. The demons would've just left Sammy's body in the motel if they wanted him dead. And they had to be doing something with him all these years – this makes as much sense as anything. More sense, actually, because it explains why we never heard from him. If they were trying to get at Dad, then they would've let us see the body, or else tried to set up a hostage thing. But they didn't, because it was never about wanting to hurt Dad. It's always been about getting Sam." Dean paused, then squared his shoulders. "I'm not letting them get him again."

"Again?" Bobby repeated. "Dean, they still got him. Let's say for arguments sake that that is Sam in there, and not some demon pretending to be him. He's still a _demon_ – he said it himself, and he don't seem upset about that."

Dean nodded. Yeah, he knew that. Whatever had happened to Sam, it'd hurt him bad, messed him up inside. You'd have to be an idiot not to see that. But- "He's still in there, Bobby," Dean said quietly. "They never killed him. He's still human."

"Maybe technically-" Bobby began.

Dean cut him off before he could get any farther. "No, more than that," he insisted, taking a step closer to Bobby. "He calls himself a demon, Bobby, but he's still there. Not always, not even that often, but enough. I still see him."

"See who?" Bobby asked.

Dean took a deep breath. "My brother," he said. "Sammy. He's still in there, Bobby, and that's enough for me."

* * *

Sam had warned Dean that he had better senses than the average human. He'd told him so back in the car, when he'd been explaining about his various powers. The way that Sam saw it, it wasn't his fault if Dean chose to ignore those warnings and hold his secret conversation just down the hall from Sam, barely twenty feet away from the room, where Sam could easily overhear every word. In which case, Sam didn't have to feel bad about eavesdropping.

Sam wouldn't have felt bad, regardless, but it was always nice to have those pesky morals completely out of his mind.

And now, Sam was glad that he had decided to listen in. The conversation was about him, just as Sam had known that it would be, and was turning out to be far more interesting than Sam had counted on.

"He's still human," Dean had said, and for the first time in centuries, Sam had to struggle to hold back his laugher. Sam was honestly beginning to pity Dean, in a way that he had never pitied the souls that he had been sent to torture in Hell, or the crying figures that came to him to make their deals. But poor Dean, delusional, thinking that his brother could still be a human. Thinking that his brother was alive, that Sammy hadn't died just as much as he would have if the demons had ripped out his heart.

Pathetic.

Bobby said as much. Not that Dean was pathetic – apparently Sam was the only one who thought that – but that Sam was only technically human, and even that was debatable.

Dean didn't respond the way that Sam had expected. He said that Bobby was wrong.

"I still see him."

"See who?"

"My brother. Sammy. He's still there, Bobby, and that's enough for me."

This time, Sam didn't laugh. This was going too far, and even he couldn't find humor in how deeply Dean had sunk into denial. Sam's hand clenched on the arm of the chair, and he was half tempted to stride out of the room, to go join the conversation and tell Dean exactly how wrong he was.

That wasn't necessary, however, because Bobby did it for him. Sam was actually beginning to like this Bobby. He was smart, at least, and clearly didn't trust anyone. Sam admired that in a person. "You think that that thing in there is anything like your brother?" Bobby demanded, his voice rising. "Let me tell you, he's not. Because you weren't the only one who knew Sam before he was taken. Hell, I practically raised you two as much as your dad did, so I know your brother, and that ain't him. It's not even close."

"You didn't see him," Dean said, and from the sound of his voice, Sam could picture the way that he'd be shaking his head. Not that Sam had been around Dean long enough to understand his mannerisms completely, but he'd watched him enough today to know that certain gestures tended to go with certain tones of voice. "He still eats, he gets uncomfortable when it's hot out – when's the last time that you've seen a demon sweat?" Dean paused, like he was really waiting for an answer, then added, "He even teased me about the Impala, for fuck's sake. That means that he's in there somewhere."

"I have seen him, though," Bobby countered. "I saw the way he was looking at me when I walked into the room. I saw the way he sneered at you when you weren't looking. That's not the way your brother ever looked."

"He's changed," Dean said. "I know that. Hell, I've changed, it happens. And it'll definitely happen after being in Hell for so long."

"He's done more than change," Bobby said. "He's a demon, in case you hadn't noticed."

Sam nodded. Yes, he didn't have to go out there and speak with Dean. Bobby was making a compelling argument on his own; he didn't need Sam's assistance in making Dean see the stupidity of his words.

Instead of backing down, though, Dean's voice just got more urgent, more intense. "That's the thing, Bobby. He's always been a demon."

"What the hell do you think-"

"Don't call me crazy just yet," Dean said. "Sam has these demon powers because Azazel forced him to drink demon blood when they dragged him down to Hell." Judging by the sound of his voice, it hurt Dean to say the words out loud, but he pushed forward without any hesitation. "But Azazel had given Sam demon blood when he was just six months old, the same night that he killed Mom. That's what I meant when I said that it was always about Sam. Even Mom's death was because of Sam, not because of her."

"So what are you saying?" Bobby asked.

"I'm saying that Sammy's had demon blood, and it never changed who he was," Dean said. "That means that the demon blood isn't what's changed him now. Hell twisted him – I know that – but that's something we can work on."

Dean was stupider than even Sam had thought.

Sam should go out to the hallway, hurt Dean somehow, prove him wrong. It would serve him right for making these idiotic assumptions. He deserved to have his happy little bubble popped in the most painful way possible.

Sam didn't move, though. He remained in his chair, wondering what he would have to do to prove to Dean that his brother was really dead. He glanced around the room as if something in it would give him the answer, but there was nothing to look at except John Winchester, who was only lying there, as good as dead even though the machines still made his chest rise and fall. Sam looked away.

"I've never heard of anyone fixing a demon," Bobby said softly. "Not the way you're talking about."

"He's human, Bobby," Dean insisted.

"No, kid," Bobby said, his voice even softer, sounding sympathetic now. "I'm sorry, but I don't think he is."

Yes. Bobby understood.

There was a long pause, seconds stretching out into almost a minute, then Dean cleared his throat. "You know what, screw you, I don't have time for this. We've got a summoning spell to do."

Footsteps. Sam carefully arranged his face into a neutral expression, making sure not to let on that he had heard anything at all. And just in time, because a second later, Dean stormed into the room, followed closely by Bobby. "The boiler room," Dean said. He grabbed the bag that Bobby had brought, then the bowl of their other supplies. "I figured that's the best place to do this. Nobody will notice us there, and we can put up devils traps." He paused, then glanced at Sam. "Those don't work on you, do they?"

"They don't," Sam confirmed.

Dean nodded, and shot a look toward Bobby, clearly thinking that this was another sign of Sam's supposed humanity. And finally, Sam realized what Dean's problem was. He was thinking too much about what was outside, about Sam's physical body. He hadn't yet realized that Sam's body was merely a vessel, even if it did belong to him in a way that most demons never got to experience.

"I'm not talking you out of this, am I?" Bobby asked, sounding resigned now. "Whatever the hell you two are doing."

"You're not," Dean said shortly.

Bobby groaned and glanced at John's body, then finally nodded. "Alright, then I'm coming with you."

If Dean was surprised, he didn't show it, and he didn't protest, either. He just nodded. "Fine," he said. He started toward the door, and Sam rose from his chair to follow him. Then Dean stopped just inside the doorway, so abruptly that Sam nearly ran into his back. "Here," he said, and reached into the pocket of his jacket, which he had put back on when they'd reached the hospital. Dean removed the Colt from the inside pocket and held it out to Sam. "You said that you're going to be the one to kill Azazel, right?"

"Yes," Sam said, taking the gun. It was heavier than he'd expected, and the weight felt odd in his hand. He quickly tucked the gun into his own jacket, which he had also put back on at the same time that Dean had.

Dean looked over at Bobby again, meeting his eyes, not flinching at the anger on Bobby's face as he watched Dean turn their best weapon over to Sam. Dean nodded. "Let's go," he said, and walked away without looking back to see if anyone else was following.

* * *

"There," Dean said, nodding as he finished drawing the giant devil's trap that filled the entire room. "There's no way that that yellow-eyes bastard is getting out of this one." He nodded and stood, wiping chalk dust off his hands as he walked over to Sam. "You got that done?"

Sam nodded. He was kneeling in the middle of the devils trap, preparing the summoning spells. He'd drawn the mark of Azazel in an empty space between the lines that Dean had drawn, the lit the candles and arranged the along various points of it. Bobby had been the one to mix the Acacia and oil of Abramelin together, and Sam had set the bowl inside the mark, ready for use. Sam stood and held the book of matches out toward Dean. "Are you ready?"

Dean gave a cocky grin that did nothing to hide his fear. "Of course I am," he said.

"You idjits are really about to go through with this?" Bobby asked. He was standing over on the other side of the room, holding his gun tight in his hands. Sam guessed that it was filled with salt rounds, as Dean's had been earlier. "How do we know that this isn't a trap?"

"The spell was in Dad's journal," Dean said. "It'll do what it says it'll do."

Bobby just nodded. "And that's exactly what I'm afraid of."

Sam grabbed Dean's hands, pushing the matchbook into his grip. "This will go exactly as planned," he promised. "I wasn't lying when I said that I want Azazel dead."

Dean nodded, though he didn't look as sure as he did before, and he immediately yanked his hands from Sam's.

Sam just motioned him toward the bowl. "We should begin," he said, partly because he was anxious for this to be over, and partly because he was starting to worry that Dean would change his mind if they didn't do the spell immediately.

Dean stared at the matchbook for a long moment, then stuffed it into his pocket. "I want to talk to you first," he said, and didn't give Sam the chance to protest. He just walked out of the room. Sam frowned, but followed.

As soon as they were away from Bobby, Dean spun around, his face suddenly right in Sam's. "I'm trusting you," he said, "and you know that I don't have a lot of reasons to do that. Hell, you said it yourself. So tell me why."

"Why what?" Sam asked.

"Why you want Azazel dead, if he was the one that's raised you for hundreds of years and gave you all these powers," Dean said. "Because I know demons, and I know that they have ways of getting people to do what they want."

Sam nodded. He knew that, more than anything. "Those ways don't work on me," he said.

"Why not?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "All I know is that I refuse to give in." The demons had broken him – there was no denying that. The person he had been, that sweet little innocent Sammy, had died long ago, and the demon that he was now had risen from that boy's ashes. He had put himself back together after the break, and become stronger. He learned to do what Azazel ordered him to do, and to fake obedience to make the demons happy, and to let his fear show on his face when it was beneficial.

But in hundreds of years, he had never become the mindless soldier that Azazel wanted him to become.

"I don't know how much you know about Azazel's plans to raise Lucifer," Sam said. Judging by the shock on Dean's face, he hadn't known anything at all. Sam nodded and continued, "I was chosen to open the Gate to Hell and free the demon Lilith. Together, we will break the seals necessary to open the cage that Lucifer is trapped in, and he will once again rule Earth." Sam paused, his mouth twisting into a scowl. "And at the end of it all, Lucifer will use my body as his vessel. He'll need my permission, of course, but the demons expect me to give it. And then I will spend the rest of eternity trapped inside my own body, unable to do anything but watch as Lucifer uses me however he will. Why do you think the demons kept me alive? They were protecting their precious vessel." He spat the last part, and could hear the own bitterness and disgust in his voice. Those were two emotions that he had thought he had rid himself of long ago. Evidentially, he was wrong.

"Holy shit," Dean said, quietly, too shocked to say anything more.

Sam nodded. "Do you understand now why I want Azazel dead?" he asked, and Dean slowly nodded. "Good." He turned to go, but was stopped by Dean's hand on his shoulder. Dean barely touched him, and dropped his hand immediately, but it was enough to make Sam freeze, then turn to look at Dean. "What?"

"I'll believe that you want Azazel dead, and that this isn't a trap," Dean said slowly, "but we both know that things don't usually go according to plan. And I'm not one for the mushy speeches-" His voice broke off, and he looked away, raising his eyes toward the ceiling as he mumbled, "God, I feel so pathetic for even doing this." Then he shook his head and looked back at Sam. "But I want to tell you something first. Just in case."

"You're making your goodbye speech?" Sam asked, mouth twisting in amusement. He had to admit, he enjoyed spending time with Dean. Sam had never been this amused by anyone else, though Sam knew that Dean wouldn't be happy with the fact that Sam was only amused by the way that he could mock Dean in his mind. "Isn't that a little too cheesy for your taste?"

Dean clenched his jaw, but he nodded. "It's gotta be said."

Sam nodded as well, and motioned for Dean to proceed. "Tell me."

It took Dean a moment to come up with the words. As much as Sam wanted to rush him, he held his tongue, sensing that interrupting Dean's thoughts now would make him take even longer to think of what to say, and would only lead to more wasted time.

"It was my fault," Dean finally admitted.

Sam swallowed his impatience, just as he had swallowed his words while waiting for Dean to speak. "What was your fault?" he asked, and if a bit of his annoyance showed in his voice, that was hardly his own fault.

"You being taken by those demons," Dean said. "I put you in the bathroom closet, drew sigils on the door and told you that they would keep you safe, and they didn't. I must've drawn the wrong symbols or something. I don't even know how that happened, but I was panicking and I messed up. None of this would have happened to you if I had just done my fucking job right."

"How do you know that you messed up?" Sam asked, curious despite himself. "The demons could have broken down the door. All it would take was one crack in the sigils, and they would become useless."

"I know," Dean said. "I should've thought of that, too. I should've drawn them somewhere besides the door, somewhere where it would've been harder for the demons to reach." He stopped talking and shook his head, then said, "That's not what happened, though. Dad told me that the bathroom was untouched – the fire didn't even reach that far. Meaning that they got to you without having to do a thing to the sigils."

"Oh," Sam said, considering that. He didn't see how it changed anything, really. He supposed that he should hate Dean for being the one to let it happen. But honestly, he had spent his whole life dealing with the consequences of his kidnapping, and by now, it didn't seem to matter how it had come about. It had happened, and now they just had to deal with the fallout. It was an attitude that he had adopted in Hell, where he would have gone crazy if he constantly obsessed over his mistakes, especially since Azazel normally sent him to the torture room for a day or two as punishment for those same mistakes.

Apparently it still mattered to Dean, though.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, and this expression was by far the most pathetic that Sam had seen on him yet, like he was broken inside and just barely managing to pretend that he wasn't. "I'm sorry that I fucked up. I'm sorry that I couldn't save you."

Sam didn't know how to respond to that, so he just nodded. "Alright," he said.

Dean took a deep breath, seeming to pull himself together more. "That's why I'm doing this," he said, with a glance toward the other room, where the spell waited. "And to save Dad, too, of course," he added. "But… I can't go back and keep all of this from happening to you. Hell, I can't even make up for it. Whatever I do, it's not going to be enough, and I know that. But at least I can make damn well sure that those bastards never touch you again." His eyes blazed on the last sentence, his face hardening with determination.

Now, it was Sam who was standing there with no idea what to say. So, just as he had earlier that day, he settled for the first phrase that came to mind, one that he never understood the point of, probably because demons never said it. "Thank you."

"Don't," Dean said sharply. "Don't thank me, okay? I haven't done anything yet, and like I said, it's not going to be enough. So let's just go kill this demon and be done with it, okay?"

"Agreed," Sam said with a nod, and this time, he was the one to lead the way back into the room.

"You okay?" Bobby asked, his eyes immediately skipping over Sam and going straight for Dean, his body tensing when he saw how torn up Dean's expression was.

"Oh, yeah," Dean said at once. "We're about to kill some demon fucker. What could be better?"

Bobby didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue as Dean walked over to stand above the symbol that Sam had drawn. He drew his knife from his pocket and held it above his arm, ready to begin the spell. "You ready?" he asked, glancing first at Bobby, then at Sam.

Bobby just nodded, but Sam grinned, knowing that this was the kind of terrifying expression that would further convince Bobby that he couldn't be trusted, and completely unable to care. "Yes," he said, pulling the Colt out of his jacket and carefully clicking off the safety. He gripped the gun tight in both hands, and held it in front of him, pointed toward the center of the devils trap, where he thought that Azazel was most likely to appear.

He had been waiting for this for so incredibly long. And now, the time was almost here.

"Do it," Sam said, and somehow, he couldn't make his words come out as more than a whisper.

It was almost time.

Now, Azazel was going to pay.


	5. Chapter 5

**This is the last chapter of _Human Born, Demon Bred_. Thank you to everyone who read this all the way through.**

* * *

The Latin chant was a bitch to remember. Dean had to concentrate hard as he recited it, which was good, because it kept him from focusing on the doubts circling his mind.

Like he'd said to Sam, he didn't exactly have a lot of reasons to trust him, even though Sam was his brother. And every time Dean thought about what he was doing, he had to resist the urge to throw down the knife and call this whole spell off. But then, like Dean had also told Sam, he didn't exactly have a choice. Sure, he was the one making the decision, but he had to. He owed Sam this much. Hell, Dean owed Sam a hell of a lot more than this, but this was the best he could do.

So when the time came, Dean cut through the back of his arm without a second of hesitation, tilting his arm to let the blood drip into the bowl easier.

Bobby had his eyes locked on Dean, concern and fear in his face, though he'd scoff and deny it if Dean ever mentioned the fear.

Sam was also watching Dean just as closely, and he looked- Well, hungry was probably the best word. Not because of Dean, though. Even with his eyes locked right on Dean, he still barely seemed aware that Dean was even there. It was the hunger for death, for killing, that Dean had seen in the faces of pretty much every monster he'd even hunted.

Not that hunters couldn't look like that. Dean recognized the expression – it was the way that Dad looked whenever they started to close in on Azazel, and Dean had seen it in the mirror more than a few times.

Still, Dean decided that it would be better to look away. So he focused on staring down at the bowl as he lit the match, holding it in his hand as he finished the chant. It took longer than he'd thought it would, and after a few seconds, Dean could feel the flame start to burn his fingertips. But he held onto it until he reached the very end, then dropped it into the bowl right as he said the last word.

The fire exploded the second it hit the contents of the bowl, flaring high enough that Dean had to stumble back. It only lasted an instant, and then they all stood there in silence, waiting to see if the spell would work.

Dean knew what the plan was. He had to be the one to summon Azazel, so that the demon's guard would be down. He'd assume that Dean was only summoning the demon because he was desperate, because he wanted to make a deal. And by the time that he even realized that Sam was in the room, the Colt's final bullet would be firmly lodged in his brain. Simple.

That wasn't how it happened.

* * *

When Azazel appeared, he didn't come alone.

The instant that he saw a figure moving in the corner of his eye, Sam swung around, pointing the gun toward it and barely refraining from pulling the trigger immediately. Which was lucky, because Sam could tell in an instant that this wasn't Azazel. It was his daughter, Meg.

"Well, well, well," a voice said from behind him, leaning forward to speak right in Sam's hair. "I suppose I should have expected something like this to happen eventually, huh?"

Sam swung around, but Azazel was already gone, staring at the far side of the devils trap, making Sam swear. He was fast, but Azazel had always been faster. That was why Sam had needed the element of surprise on his side to have any hope of beating him.

Now, the element of surprise was gone.

Sam tried to level the gun at Azazel, but no sooner had he taken aim than Azazel was several feet to the left, leering at Sam.

Bobby let off a shot, but Azazel neatly dodged the bullet. A second later, Bobby was slammed back against the wall, his gun falling from his hand. Tom – Azazel's son – bent and picked it up, his face impassive as it always was, though he glanced back and forth between Bobby and the gun like he was imagining all the ways that he could use the gun for torture.

"Bobby!" Dean shouted, and Sam looked to him for the first time. Meg had her arms wrapped around Dean, holding him still no matter how he tried to fight his way free. He didn't look injured, though, so Sam turned his attention back to Azazel.

"Really, Sam?" Azazel asked, shaking his head as thoroughly disappointed. "You betray us to work with humans? I thought that you were better than this."

Sam had the gun pointed at the center of Azazel's forehead. It was a perfect shot. At this range, he couldn't miss.

But Sam didn't pull the trigger, because he knew what would happen if he did. Azazel could move faster than a bullet, and even though Sam's shot would be perfect, Azazel would no longer be standing there by the time that the bullet arrived. When Sam finally pulled the trigger, he had to make sure that Azazel didn't know it was coming.

"And out of all the people that you could have worked with, you had to choose a Winchester?" Azazel asked, taking a step to the side, slowly circling Sam. Sam turned to watch him, keeping the gun pointed at him at all times, as useless as that was. "I think that someone needs to wake up and smell the corpses, Sam. You don't get to side with the humans anymore. That ships sailed a long time ago, now all that's left is to ride it the rest of the way to Hell."

That was exactly what Sam had been saying – that he wasn't human, that he didn't get to be the good guy any longer. But hearing it from Azazel, it made him narrow his eyes and ask, "And what makes you think that you know anything about me?" Because damn Azazel. He might be right, but he didn't need to know it.

Azazel just smiled. "Have it your way. Let me know how that works out for you."

That was when Dean screamed.

Sam wasn't stupid enough to turn around and leave himself exposed to Azazel completely, but he did risk a glance at Dean over his shoulder. Meg had him on his knees, and he was doubled over, face contorted in pain. His arm was twisted unnaturally, the bone clearly snapped to pieces. No wonder he screamed.

Sam turned back to Azazel. A second later, there was a snap from behind him, and Dean screamed again. Sam didn't need to look behind him to be able to imagine what Meg had done to Dean's other arm.

"What is it that I see on your face, Sam?" Azazel asked, tilting his head and looking honestly curious, the smug bastard that he was. "Are you worried about Dean? That's sweet." He took a step forward, his face darkening. "And yes, you should be."

Another scream from Dean. Bobby was thrashing on the wall, looking like he was trying to get free, but he was held tight and could barely move at all. He couldn't even scream.

"You have one bullet, Sam," Azazel said. "Let's see who you use it to save."

Bobby's face began to grow red. Tom had his hand clenched into a fist and pointed toward Bobby's throat, choking off his air. Dean wasn't screaming anymore. Instead, he was gasping for breath, these pained sounds coming out of his mouth like he was too far gone to even scream anymore.

Sam hated those noises. He'd heard them in Hell, again and again, never stopping. Sometimes, a soul could go for years making no other sound.

Sam was never bothered by the screams, but those noises-

"Spoiler alert, Sam," Azazel said with a grin. "You won't save anyone. But you're still going to try, right?"

The noise from behind wasn't a snap this time. It was wetter this time, flesh separating from flesh, and apparently Dean could still scream, after all. There was something off about the sound. Because Sam had heard many screams, but this was different. It was the first one that made his skin crawl, that made him want to find a way to end it before he was forced to hear it again. But at the same time, there was something familiar about it. He was suddenly filled with an intense sense of déjà vu, as if he had heard this sound before, and not just today.

There wasn't time to think about that, though. This time, Sam spun around, leveling the gun at Meg. "Step away from him."

Dean was on the ground, both his arms broken, blood gushing from a gash in his cheek. Sam knew what pain like that felt like, how badly it hurt. But Dean still managed to open his eyes and croak out a broken, "Sam-"

Meg smiled. She was crouching over Dean, a feral look on her face. Slowly, she brought her hand down to stroke the side of Dean's face, her nails scraping against his skin.

"I said get back!" Sam shouted. The gun was still pointed at her head, ready to shoot any moment.

Dean was still watching Sam, but there was something else in his eyes now, something that Sam didn't want to see. It looked almost like relief, or hope, like he believed that Sam was going to shoot Meg and come to his rescue.

Azazel believed the same thing, judging by the way that he chuckled. "And what are you going to do if she doesn't listen, Sam?"

Shoot her in the head. That's what they were thinking. Sacrifice the last bullet to save Dean.

Let Azazel escape. Ruin everything that Sam had been working toward for years, destroy his one chance at killing Azazel. Let himself be dragged down to Hell, submit to a few centuries of torture before Alistair declared him broken enough to once more be of use. Then he would be watched for the rest of eternity, never left alone until it was time to say yes to Lucifer, and by then it would all be over.

Sam wanted to save Dean. He wasn't sure why, but he honestly did. It just wasn't possible.

He did care enough to mouth "I'm sorry" to Dean, and in the space of an instant, Sam saw the hope die in Dean's eyes. Then Sam spun around, ready to catch Azazel off guard, his finger already beginning to pull the trigger.

And just like last time, Sam's attempts at surprise failed.

Sam never saw Tom move, but suddenly he was behind Sam, grabbing him the way that Meg had grabbed Dean, jerking his hand so that Sam couldn't shoot straight. The gun didn't go off, and Sam had just enough time to be grateful for that before he was flying just as Bobby had. But unlike Bobby, Sam collapsed to the ground, the gun still in his hand.

He wasn't hurt, and he would have gotten to his feet immediately, but then Tom was crouching over him, one knee on Sam's chest, holding him where he was. Sam didn't even try to push him off. Even at his best, he could never come close to matching Tom's strength.

"I have to hand it to you, Sam," Azazel said, coming over to stand above the two of them. "I never thought that you would be willing to let Dean die just to kill me. Maybe you're not completely hopeless, after all." He said the last part musingly as he kicked the Colt out of Sam's hand, moving it across the floor until it was just out of reach. "That doesn't mean that we're going to let you win, of course, but still, there's something worth saving in you."

"Fuck you," Sam snapped, before he could help himself.

Azazel raised his eyebrows. "Language, Sam," he chastised, sounding more and more like a disappointed father. To further heighten the image, he stepped forward and clasped Tom on the shoulder. "Nice job restraining him."

Tom nodded, acknowledging the compliment with an expressionless face.

"I think I'll give you the first crack at Sam once we get down to Hell," Azazel added, giving Tom another squeeze before stepping back. "A prelude, if you will. Something to prepare him for Alistair."

Tom leaned even closer to Sam with a smile, possibly the first smile that Sam had ever seen from him. "We're going to have so much fun," he whispered. "You're going to be so relieved when it's Alistair's turn, because nothing he does will even compare to what I have planned."

"I wouldn't get so cocky," Sam spat, also leaning forward, until their faces were only inches apart. "I've seen what you have to offer. You're weak."

Tom's face didn't change, and nothing in his body gave away what he intended to do. But a second later, he had a blade on one hand, and was shoved it into Sam's gut.

Sam let out a strangled gasp as the metal sunk into his skin, missing all vital organs – Tom had aimed well. It was nothing that Sam wouldn't heal from, which was probably the point. Tom would never kill him, or even cripple him. Not until they were back in Hell, at least. Down there, it was easier to put people back together.

Sam didn't scream, though, because if he was going down, then he wasn't going to be compliant when he did, dammit. He even managed a smile, determined not to show that the knife hurt him. "See?" he asked. "Weak."

Tom twisted the knife deeper, and despite the years of torture that Sam had endured, the pain was still enough to rip a small cry from Sam's lips.

"Sammy," Dean gasped, and Sam's eyes immediately went to his. Dean was watching him, horrified. Horrified for Sam's sake, even though he should barely be conscious at this point, let alone able to worry about anyone but himself. Sam didn't understand it.

Tom pulled the knife out of Sam's stomach, and this time, Sam was able to keep himself from making a sound. Tom just calmly wiped the knife on the front of Sam's jacket, then returned the knife to the sheath on his belt. "Thank you for this opportunity, Father," he said, his voice flat as always, though now there was just the smallest hint of pleasure in it.

"Of course, my boy," Alistair said. "It's only fair, since your sister gets to do whatever she likes with Dean."

"And trust me, I intend to enjoy every minute of it," Meg said, running her hand down Dean's side, then abruptly digging her fingers into his chest, so deep they disappeared up to the first knuckle.

Dean screamed, and kept screaming, a continuous noise that never seemed to end. And just like before, there was something so _familiar_ about the sound. It made Sam shudder, and Tom smirked at this show of weakness, but Sam hardly noticed. "Let him go," Sam ordered, looking over Tom's shoulder toward Azazel. "Drag me down to Hell, but you don't need to hurt him."

Sam didn't even know why he was arguing for Dean's life, except that he knew that there was no way to save himself. Azazel was going to take him to Hell no matter what he did, so he might as well try to save someone else if he could. There was nothing for him to lose, after all.

Azazel chuckled. "Well, doesn't this bring back memories," he said. "This isn't the first time you made that offer, you know."

Sam froze. "What do you mean?" he snapped.

Sam's anger only seemed to delight Azazel even more. "It was so easy to make you agree to come with us last time," he said. "All it took is a little bit of torture, and you came crawling out, begging us to spare your brother. I guess it's true that some things never change, isn't it?" Meg pushed her fingers deeper into Dean's chest, he screamed again, and Sam felt as though he couldn't move. Azazel smiled. "All these centuries, and Dean is still your weakness, isn't he?"

Azazel's words triggered something in Sam. Or maybe it hadn't been Azazel at all. Maybe it had more to do with the all-too-familiar agony in Dean's voice, or the way he'd said Sammy's name, or it could just be that for the first time in centuries, Sam actually wanted to remember. But the memories suddenly came flooding back.

He remembered the chess game, and how he'd been caught between pride over the fact that he was winning and suspicion that Dean was babying him. The flickering lights, the TV static. Dean's hand, too tight on his arm as he'd been yanked to the bathroom. Dean had drawn the sigils and then left, even though Sam had wanted to beg him to stay so that they could hide together, and Sam had been all alone, hugging his knees to his chest, scared.

And Dean had screamed. This was ten years ago, but the sound hadn't changed, it had been exactly the same as the way that Dean screamed under Meg's touch. Sam had covered his ears and curled up as much as he could, trying not to hear it, trying to be brave. But then another voice – Meg's voice, or the voice of the vessel she'd worn back then – had whispered to him through the door, her voice somehow audible over the screams. She'd said that Dean would live if Sam just opened the door.

_Make this easy on us. We don't want to force you out of there, but we will._

And Sam had listened.

_You want your brother to live, don't you? Just come out before we flame broil him beyond repair._

Sam hadn't been taken. Sam had stood up and looked Meg in the eye, telling her that he would go wherever she wanted, just please don't hurt his brother. And Meg had agreed.

That was why Dean was alive. It hadn't been a mistake on Azazel's part. It had been Sam.

Sam remembered everything.

Including why he had cared enough to do it.

Sam started thrashing now, screaming – no taunting insults, not even any words, just a scream, loud enough that it drowned out the sound of Dean's pain.

Tom held him tight, kept Sam from being able to break free. "You're brother won't be so lucky this time," he whispered, leaning closer still to Sam's face. "Nothing can save him this time, not even you."

Sam didn't even think. He just leaned forward and dug his teeth into Tom's throat.

Blood had long since ceased to bother him, and Sam didn't gag as Tom's blood slipped down his throat, though he wasn't trying to drink. Instead, he dug his teeth as deeply into Tom's flesh as he could, knowing that it wouldn't be enough to kill the demon, but it could wound him. Tom started shoving at Sam's head, trying to push him away, but now Sam's hands were free, and he grabbed tight, holding Tom still as he ripped out as much flesh as he could.

Azazel was there in an instant, grabbing Tom to pull him away from Sam. Instead of fighting, Sam shoved Tom at Azazel as hard as he could, then rolled to the side. It only took a second, and then the Colt was back in Sam's hand. This was his chance. He took careful aim, and fired.

His shot was perfect. A second passed, and then Meg collapsed forward, her body slumping across Dean's.

Silence. And then Azazel laughed.

"I was right about Dean being your weakness," he said, clapping his hands together, like he was just so excited that he couldn't hold himself back. "You wasted your last bullet, your one chance to destroy me, and for what? Saving a boy that I'm going to kill, anyway?"

Sam pushed himself up into a crouch, eyes locked on Azazel, ready to spring at any second. "You stay away from him," he snarled.

Azazel took a step forward, and when he spoke, there was a mocking lilt in his voice. "Or you'll do what?" he asked. "You're weapon is gone, Sam. How do you expect to win?"

Sam swallowed hard. He could still taste Tom's blood, and could feel it coating the inside of his throat.

Then he smiled. "This."

Sam raised one had, slowly, holding it out toward Azazel. He didn't know if it would work. Honestly, he didn't think it would. Azazel clearly didn't think so, judging by the way that his mocking expression never wavered.

But then Sam replayed Dean's screams in his head, and remembered the way that Dean's face had contorted as Meg had been digging her fingers into his flesh. Sam's eyes narrowed, and in that moment, Azazel began to tremble.

It was a better death than Sam could have hoped for, infinitely better than shooting him with the gun, mostly because it was slower. Not too long, not drawn out, but it still lasted long enough that Sam could enjoy the look of dawning comprehension in Azazel's eyes as he realized just how deeply wrong he had been. Then it was over. Black smoke poured from the vessel's mouth, disappearing into nothing as Azazel was ripped apart. His meatsuit collapsed to the ground with a crash, dead.

The Colt fell from Sam's free hand, and Sam had to grab the ground to keep himself upright. Suddenly, he could feel his knife wound again, throbbing in his side even though the bleeding had already stopped. Sam closed his eyes, feeling as though he were going to collapse as Azazel's vessel had. He had finally – _finally_ – done what he'd wanted, and all he felt was exhausted.

But Azazel was dead.

Sam had won.

He opened his eyes, and immediately looked toward Dean's still form on the ground. He was passed out, then. Probably a blessing, given the way his body was twisted. Good thing that this was a hospital.

"Dean?" Sam said as he moved slowly forward. He didn't bother to stand and walk, just crawled on his hands and knees over to where Dean lay. "Don't worry, I'll take you upstairs to be treated, it will be fine." Still no response, of course. Sam hadn't expected one.

Meg was still lying across Dean's body. Sam pushed her away, being careful not to jostle Dean in the process, dumping Meg's body off to the side and letting it sprawl across the concrete without caring how it ended up. It was only then that Sam turned back and saw Dean's face.

Dean's eyes were opened, his mouth frozen mid-scream. He didn't move, or breathe. The hole in his chest was bigger than Sam had expected it to be.

Dean was dead.

"No," Sam said softly, and couldn't add anything more.

There were footsteps behind him, and then Bobby asked, "Sam?" His voice was low, terrified. Sam couldn't blame him for that. In fact, Sam barely even noticed it.

Sam closed his eyes for one, two, three seconds, using the time to grab his pain and shove it deep inside him, hiding it where no one would be able to see its brokenness. It was a coping mechanism he'd learned in Hell, to make himself seem stronger than he was so that the demons were less likely to torment him. He used it now, keeping his face absolutely clear as he stood and turned to face Bobby.

Bobby's eyes widened as he caught sight of Sam's face, and he stumbled back, the words to an exorcism flowing off his lips.

"That won't work on me," Sam said.

Bobby finished the exorcism anyway, and didn't seem to know how to react when it didn't work. Sam didn't pay further attention to him, though. Instead, he used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his face, and turned toward Tom. The demon was still huddling on the floor, holding his neck and watching Sam with terror in his eyes.

Sam smiled. He could still appreciate that look, at least. Then his face turned serious again. "Tell Crowley to send someone to me."

Tom nodded at once, then said, "The devils trap-"

The trap was only drawn on with chalk, and though it had survived the battle, it wouldn't take much to destroy it. Sam could have easily rubbed out one of the lines with the bottom of his shoe. He didn't, though. Instead, he walked over to Dean's body, reaching down to draw the gun that he knew that Dean had hidden there. Sam checked the cartridge. Salt rounds. They would do.

Sam spun around and shot the markings on the floor, pulling the trigger three times, watching the way that Tom jumped each time. The salt struck the concrete with enough force to smudge the chalk. Sam nodded, then gently set the gun beside Dean's hand, telling Tom, "Don't keep me waiting."

Tom had vanished before Sam had even finished his order. Hopefully he would do as Sam said. Sam thought that he would, though. He would be stupid to disobey.

Sam took one more moment to wipe his face with the sleeve of his jacket, hoping that it would be enough, and paused long enough to pick up the Colt and tuck it back into his pocket, where it was completely hidden. Once that was done, he turned to Bobby. "You will probably want to follow."

"What are you doing?" Bobby asked, but Sam left without answering.

The walk through the hospital stretched on for an eternity. Sam carefully held his jacket closed to hide his knife wound, suddenly grateful that his black jacket hid the bloodstains so well. Nobody even glanced in his direction.

There was already a demon waiting for them when Sam reached John's room, Bobby trailing behind. Sam nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. Say what you would about Crowley, but he wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what was going on, and why Sam had asked that a demon be sent to him.

"Do it," Sam said, gesturing toward the bed.

The demon nodded, then turned and placed her hand on John's face.

"What the hell is going on here?" Bobby demanded.

"Dean and I had a deal," Sam explained quietly. "She's fulfilling it on my behalf."

It was clear that Bobby still didn't understand what was happening, but Sam didn't feel the need to explain. Bobby would realize soon enough.

And sure enough, John's eyes flew open a second later. He immediately began to choke on the tube that had been shoved down his throat, but Sam didn't worry himself over that. There were plenty of nurses around; they would ensure that John was taken care of.

There was no reason for Sam to remain here any longer, so when the demon offered him her arm, Sam didn't hesitate to take it and follow her out into the hall.

Bobby followed after them. "Where do you think you're going now?"

Sam paused, then turned slowly, looking back at Bobby and meeting the man's eyes. "Now," he said, "it's my turn to make the deal."

* * *

Crowley was waiting for him when Sam walked into his office. "Ah, Sam," he said with a smile, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk, fingers intertwined. "Quite the interesting deal you just made, wasn't it? Aren't you glad that I gave you that assignment now?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"

Crowley smirked. "I believe that I could hazard a guess," he said, tapping his chin with one finger, as though he really were thinking it over. "You want me to bring your brother back from the dead, don't you? To put Humpty Dumpty back together again?"

Sam didn't say anything, just pulled out the Colt and slammed it onto the desk. "This is the key to opening the Gates of Hell," Sam said, pushing it forward, closer to Crowley. "Hide it somewhere, and Lilith will never be able to rise. If Lilith never rises, then Lucifer never rises, either."

Crowley picked up the gun, turning it over in his hands, then set it back onto the desk. "I'm afraid that my price is a bit higher than just the gun."

Sam narrowed his eyes. That was the exact answer that he'd been expecting, and he already knew what Crowley was going to say next. Even so, he asked, "What do you want?"

Crowley just raised his eyebrows. "What are you willing to offer?"

That was the thing. Sam only had one other thing left to offer, and they both knew it. Sam leaned forward, planting both hands flat on the top of the desk, glaring down at Crowley. "You want me to sell my soul, don't you?" he asked. "Fine. Take it."

Crowley stood, shaking his head. "Here's the problem with that," he said. "Normally, selling your soul means that you get dragged down to Hell. But you see, I don't want to do that with you."

"Why not?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowing even further.

If Crowley was affected at all by Sam's glare, he didn't let it show. "Let's be honest here, Sam. If there was ever someone who was going to become a demon immediately, it would be you. And I'm sure you can see why I can't let that happen. You would be too strong for any of us to handle." He spread his hands, almost in an apology. "These are good things, Sam. You should feel flattered that the King of the Crossroads doesn't want your soul."

"But there's nothing else that you want?" Sam asked.

Crowley shook his head. "Sorry, lad. Better luck next time."

Sam was silent for a long moment. He didn't move, and nether did Crowley, the two of them staring each other down, not breaking eye contact. Sam was the one to finally look away. "Fine," he said. "If you don't want my soul in Hell, then you can do whatever you want with it." It wouldn't be a typical Hell deal, where the seller got ten years and a guarantee of where they would end up at the end of it. But it was the best that Sam would get.

Slowly, Crowley smiled. "Now _that_," Crowley said, punctuating the word with a sharp jab of his finger, "is something that I can get behind."

"So we have a deal, then?" Sam asked.

Crowley nodded. "If you are really agreeing to let me have full control over what I do with your soul," he said, "then yes, we do have a deal."

"Good," Sam said.

He didn't ask what Crowley had planned. Heaven briefly flashed through Sam's mind, but he pushed those thoughts away. Crowley would never be so kind, and anyway, Sam would never belong there. He was too twisted, too corrupted to ever fit in among the angels. More likely, Crowley would just destroy his soul completely, scatter the pieces so that it could never be reassembled. That would make the most sense. Crowley would never have to worry about competition, and even if Lucifer did somehow manage to rise someday, he would never have his true vessel.

All of this was exactly what Crowley would have wanted, to the point where Sam started to wonder how much of this had been planned, if any of it had been. It didn't seem as though Crowley could have found a way to manipulate the events so that they turned out exactly like this, but then, Crowley had always been tricky. It wouldn't have been a surprise to find out that he had somehow orchestrated everything that had happened.

Sam didn't ask, though, just as he hadn't asked what Crowley planned to do with his soul. It was another question that simply didn't seem important.

Crowley crossed around his desk and approached Sam, the hint of a smile on his face. "Well, Sam, I can certainly say that it was a pleasure doing business with you," he said, holding out a hand for Sam to shake. Sam did, stiffly, impatient for Crowley to get on with it, to kill Sam now so that Dean could be brought back.

"You know, this really is a very unusual deal," Crowley said, sounding more thoughtful than anything else. "It isn't every day that I get the chance to make a deal with a fellow demon. Ordinarily, this kind of thing isn't possible."

Sam took a deep breath, then turned back to Crowley, looking him straight in the eye. "Well, then," he said slowly, and smiled. "I guess I'm human, after all."


End file.
